


Happiness Begins

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Time Travel, eliot's a time traveler but not really, in which we care about quentin coldwater and eliot waugh's happiness because nobody else will, there are two eliots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 09:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “Quentin Coldwater?”Quentin blinks up at the man in white, an angel in his own right, as he glares down at him, contempt and mild interest battling it out on his face. All Quentin can do is nod with a, “Uh-huh,” because the words can’t seem to find him anymore than his heart seems capable of slowing down.The man’s eyes narrow, before his gaze sweeps over Quentin’s body, sending a chill down Quentin’s spine, and a malease of how beautiful the angel is, and what he must see when he looks over him. He swallows thickly, and the man jumps down from the stone, a soft little smirk settling on his lips. “I’m Eliot. You’re late.”Quentin blinks again, not quite sure what to say, but the man turns on his heel, and Quentin stares after him. He’s talking, but he can’t quite register any of the words with the sudden summer sun blaring down on him, and the cool breeze ruffling his hair and sweeping away the nervous sweat building along his hairline. He takes a step, moves to follow after the man, not quite ready to let him go, when a warm hand wraps around his arm from behind, and spins him around.





	Happiness Begins

“Quentin Coldwater?” 

Quentin blinks up at the man in white, an angel in his own right, as he glares down at him, contempt and mild interest battling it out on his face. All Quentin can do is nod with a, “Uh-huh,” because the words can’t seem to find him anymore than his heart seems capable of slowing down. 

The man’s eyes narrow, before his gaze sweeps over Quentin’s body, sending a chill down Quentin’s spine, and a malease of how beautiful the angel is, and what he must see when he looks over him. He swallows thickly, and the man jumps down from the stone, a soft little smirk settling on his lips. “I’m Eliot. You’re late.” 

Quentin blinks again, not quite sure what to say, but the man turns on his heel, and Quentin stares after him. He’s talking, but he can’t quite register any of the words with the sudden summer sun blaring down on him, and the cool breeze ruffling his hair and sweeping away the nervous sweat building along his hairline. He takes a step, moves to follow after the man, not quite ready to let him go, when a warm hand wraps around his arm from behind, and spins him around. 

Reflexively, Quentin yanks his arm back, stumbling backwards, as a man— no, not  _ a  _ man,  _ the  _ man,  _ Eliot—  _ with longer, unkempt hair, and a long, jet black jacket, stares at him with wide, openly sad eyes. Quentin squares his shoulder, taking another step back. He looks over his shoulder to where the version of Eliot in white, with a casual, suave demeanor, stands with pursed lips. He’s watching them, eyes narrowed, and one hand wrapped around his waist, while the other taps on the end of his cigarette and the ash falls into the wind. 

“Well,” He says, all curious and calm, “this is certainly a turn of events I wasn’t expecting.” 

Quentin’s breath catches in his throat, and he turns back around to look at the other Eliot, in his black jacket and his sad eyes. “I—” He breaks off, because what can he say? He has no fucking clue what’s happening. 

Eliot in black takes a step forward, hands reaching out between them like he’s going to grab at Quentin again, but they fall to his side limply as he stops, barely a few inches away; almost like he needs to be close to him but isn’t sure how to touch him, or if he can. He swallows audibly, and his chin dimples as his eyes dart over Quentin’s face, like he’s trying to drink him in. Quentin tilts his head, doesn’t say anything. Whatever this is— he doesn’t think he’s meant to say or do anything. 

“I’m not sure what’s happening here,” Eliot in white says from behind them, sounding a little irritated, but mostly confused, “but I’d really like to know when I decided to stop partaking in simple self care. I can see my pores from  _ here.”  _

Eliot in black barely glances over Quentin’s head at himself. “This isn’t about you,” He says, his gaze dropping down to meet Quentin’s. “This is about him.” He swallows again, and Quentin instinctively takes a step in, like they’re both magnets and he’s being pulled towards the positive to his negative. Eliot in black tilts his head, and one of his hands comes up. Quentin sees the moment he hesitates out of the corner of his eye, until a soft warmth settles at the back of his neck. “Hi.” 

Quentin’s eyes close of their own accord. And none of this makes any  _ sense, _ because not even ten minutes ago he was chasing down a page to a manuscript that shouldn’t even exist, in the middle of winter, no less, and now he’s standing in a field in summer in front of a school and two men are watching him like they know more about him than he knows about himself. And somehow, it doesn’t send his mind spiraling or his chest clenching. It doesn’t fill him dread or fear or anxiety. He just. 

He feels— 

He opens his eyes, and looks up into Eliot’s eyes; let’s the hazel trap him. 

He  _ feels  _ like this is where he  _ belongs. _ Like everything before now was a prologue and everything’s starting, or ending, or both, and none of it makes any sense. He clears his throat. “I . . . have no idea what’s happening right now,” He breathes. Can’t even whisper. 

Wonders if maybe he fell asleep on the subway and this is all some vivid dream, and he’s going to wake up alone and hard and confused. 

Eliot brings up his free hand and cups his jaw, thumb stroking over the skin of his cheek. His eyes shine as tears file in and fill up the space along his eyelashes. “I know,” He says, voice somehow even softer than Quentins. “I shouldn’t even be here.” 

“Where  _ is  _ here?” 

Eliot rolls his lips, before shrugging. “With you is the only thing I can say that won’t make me sound crazy or send you spiraling.” 

“I mean. I think I’m already spiraling.” He’s not. But he will, when they separate and he goes back to New York and has to live his life like none of this ever happened. Or, if he wakes up and this ends up being one of those dreams that felt too real. Eliot blinks, and one of the tears slips over his cheekbone. Quentin reaches up without thinking, and carefully brushes it away with his thumb. And Eliot’s face falls as his eyes close and he leans into the touch. 

_ “Fuck,” _ He chokes out after a beat, the sound wet and broken, and like it’s full of more than Quentin can even try to comprehend. “I’m so sorry,” He adds, as he opens his eyes. “I’m a selfish bastard, Q. But I—” He breaks off, swallowing. 

“You?” 

His chin wobbles, before the hand on Quentin’s chin slips around, and his fingers lace together at the back of Quentin’s neck. “I need a favor,” He says, as he leans in and presses their foreheads together. “Q, I  _ know,” _ he pauses to swallow, or collect himself, Quentin’s not entirely sure which, “you don’t know me right now. But I need you to do me a favor. And I can’t tell you why, or anything. But I need you to do this for me.” 

Something tugs at Quentin’s stomach, and he can’t help but not, heart lurching in his chest in kind. “What is it?” 

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to level himself out, his hands squeezing at the back of his throat, not unpleasantly. “I need you to leave,” He says after a beat, the words still wet and full, as he opens his eyes. “I need you to go back the way you came and not come back.” 

He’s not sure what he expected from that, but it wasn’t— it wasn’t  _ walk away.  _

“But I—” 

“The only way I keep you is if we never live this life.” And it doesn’t make any  _ fucking  _ sense, because he doesn’t even know what the fuck this life  _ is.  _ But, before he can even try to ask, Eliot’s pulling away and looking over his shoulder at Eliot in white. “You don’t need magic,” He says, which,  _ what the fuck? Magic? _ “You don’t need magic to be happy or to feel okay. It just makes everything worse. Leave with him. Leave with him and never fucking look back.” 

Quentin twists his neck around, frowning at the look of shock on Eliot in white’s face. His mouth’s open, eyebrows furrowed, and the cigarette dips out of his fingers and lands in the grass, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. Though, Quentin can’t help but admit: even gobsmacked, Eliot in white is effortlessly beautiful. 

“You don’t need to be miserable,” Eliot continues. “We can be happy.” 

_ “Happy?”  _ Eliot in white asks, distaste thick in his tone. “With  _ him?” _ He scoffs. “Please.” 

Eliot in black swallows, and looks down at Quentin again. “Yes,” He says, loud enough for Eliot in white to hear. His eyes lock on Quentin’s. “With him.” 

“That’s  _ enough, _ Bambi.” 

Bambi? 

“I’m not Margo,” Eliot in black shakes his head and looks back up at him. When he speaks again, his words come out as a frustrated growl between gritted teeth, and tears dip over his cheek bones faster than Quentin can try to catch them. “I’m from your fucking  _ future. _ And I know everything we go through if we choose magic. What you go through. What Margo goes through. What—” He glances down at Quentin, and back up. “What we  _ lose. _ Because we’re afraid.” 

Which. Implies something a little darker than the summer skies suggest. 

But also—

Hold on. 

Quentin pulls back, just enough to feel the pressure of leaning back into the hold at the back of his neck. “What do you mean  _ the future?” _

Eliot in black freezes, before looking down at him again. “I—” 

Eliot in white interrupts, strolling towards them. “Look. I don’t know what the fuck kind of game you’re playing at—” 

“You fall in love with him,” Eliot in black says, dropping his hands and taking a step away from Quentin to focus on Eliot in white. “But you refuse to tell him because you’re a fucking coward. And when you finally realize that what you have is real it’s too fucking late. Because he—” He breaks off,  pulling his lower lip into his mouth and turning his attention on the ground.

“Oh my god,” Quentin murmurs. “Am I —  _ dead  _ in your future?” 

Eliot in white stops next to him, his breath hitching, and he looks at Eliot in black accusatively.  _ “Is _ he dead in your future?” 

The tendons in Eliot in black’s neck tense and flex, and Quentin stumbles back a few steps until he crashes into the stone with Brakebills etched into. He swallows down a lump and looks between the two Eliot’s. “How— how do I—” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“What?” Eliot in white’s neck nearly snaps with how fast he twists around to look at Eliot in black. “I don’t even know him and I know it matters.” He crosses his arms over his chest and pops a hip, glaring at himself. “Clearly something goes to shit in the future. Just tell us what and we’ll keep it from happening.” 

Eliot in black shakes his head, “That won’t work.” He darts his gaze over to Quentin and rushes in, grabbing his hands, “Q, I am begging you. Please. Magic— I know it feels like it’s where you’re supposed to be. Like it’s the only thing that’ll make you feel alright. But— it just ruins everything. It makes everything  _ worse.” _ Quentin looks down at their hands, feeling faint as his heart pounds angrily in his chest. Magics real, but it’ll ruin his life. It’ll be the death of him. “Q,” Eliot in black drops one of his hands and reaches up to cup his chin, directing his eyes back up. “I can’t keep waking up to a world without you.” 

Quentin stares at him helplessly. Because this . . .  this is something he’s never had. The love practically shining in Eliot’s eyes right there beneath the fear. A star shrouded by clouds. Like he’s the holder of the only key to Eliot’s heart, and he has no intention of asking for it back. It’s— to say something he’s spent more time convincing himself he doesn’t deserve it, than hoping for it, would be an understatement. His gaze drops down to their hands, where Eliot’s squeezing, but not too tight. Like he knows just how much pressure to apply not to hurt him. 

“How do I die?” He asks without really meaning to, looking back up at him. “If magic’s real, why couldn’t it—” He cuts himself off as Eliot in black sets his jaw and looks away, a vaguely haunted look passing over his face. “What?” 

“I wasn’t there,” Eliot mutters, sounding slightly sick. “I wasn’t there to— to see it.” 

“But you know.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then his head lifts up and down, once, in a jerky imitation of a nod, and Quentin tilts his own head. “How do I die?” 

“If I tell you—” 

Eliot in white takes a step forward. “Look, pseudo future me with the bad hygiene. Nobody's listening to you unless—” 

“You killed yourself.” Quentin’s heart pangs against his ribs once, slows, and then pounds quick and fast as the words register. “Magic. Took everything. And then I was. Possessed. And when I came back, Alice told me you’d killed yourself.” He clicks his jaw side to side and looks down at him. “I’ve tried everything, Q. I’ve tried quest after quest after fucking quest. The only way to save you is if you never fight the beast. Is if we lose that battle and give up magic. For good.” 

Quentin swallows. “I wouldn’t,” He murmurs after a moment, looking between them. Eliot in white looks about as shocked as Quentin feels; he’s watching his counterpart with a furrowed brow and open mouth, like he’s trying to read him but can’t quite decipher the language. “I wouldn’t kill myself.” Not now. Not in the future. He’s done so fucking much to fight to survive. It just. Doesn’t make sense—

“You don’t know what happens,” Eliot in black says, taking a step back and dropping his hands to his sides. “Nobody in your position would have survived it alone.” He pauses, jaw working like he wants to add more, and he reaches up to run a hand over his face. “God, Q, you have no fucking clue how sorry I am— I just.” He glances at his wrist and curses. “I’m almost out of time.” 

“Out of time?” Eliot in white asks from beside Quentin. “What does that even mean?  Are you dying too?” 

“I wish.” Eliot in black shakes his head and looks heavenword, glaring at something Quentin and Eliot in white can’t quite see. “No, I have. A time limit before the spell wears off.” He looks between them. “Get Margo. And whoever else. To be completely honest, after what they pulled this year, I don’t give a flying  _ fuck _ if any of them survive Martin Chatwin. But you, Q,” He settles his gaze on him, eyes darting over his face. “I need you to do this. I need you to do what’s best for you. And it’s not magic, or Fogg’s fucking bullshit no depression meds nonsense— it’s a real life. We did it once. We can do it again.” He moves back in. “Please.” 

“I—” 

“I am asking  _ you to choose me, Q,” _ Eliot urges, interrupting and grabbing his hand. His skins gone cold, nearly stings where they’re in contact. He looks down at Quentin meaningfully, like there’s something deeper beneath the words that he just doesn’t understand yet — and something about it  _ does _ feel familiar. In a sort of  _ wake up with deja vu _ kind of way. 

Eliot in white takes a step back. “This is  _ insane.” _

Eliot in black ignores him, and heaves in a breath, “Whatever happens, Q, you need to know that I love you.” His eyes widen a fraction, as if emphasising the statement, and he squeezes Quentin’s hand. “I fucking  _ love _ you.” 

Quentin opens his mouth to reply, but he blinks. And the cold vanishes, the soothing warm breeze brushes over his skin, as his hands hang limply at his sides. He turns to look at Eliot in white, who looks about as spooked as he feels, and helplessly leans back against the Brakebills stone. 

  
  
  


_ Eliot wakes up, blinking the harsh light away, and folds his arm over his eyes to block it out completely. Expects to fist his hand in grass by his head, but finds a warm comforter, and something even warmer and softer instead. He inhales quickly, holds his arm there, index finger twitching, brushing up the warm, soft— arm. If the hair tickling the edge of his skin is anything to go by. _

_ There’s an annoyed groan, and his heart picks up pace, pounding like a jackhammer in his chest, because even like this, spell drunk and dazed, he’d recognize the voice beneath the groan.  _

_ “What are you doing?” They ask, sounding half asleep, “Go back to sleep.” Something jostles the bed, and the arm disappears, until it’s replaced with something swelteringly warm, slightly clammy, and very hand shaped. “Since when do you wake up before noon on a Sunday?” Eliot swallows, thick, and carefully, hesitantly, lifts his arm, and squints his arms open. He’s met with brown— brown hair, brown eyes. Big, doe eyes, blinking blearily against the light, and crinkled at the sides like there’s a joke that Eliot’s not quite in on yet. “El?” The crinkles disappear, a fold appearing between two bushy eyebrows. “Are you okay?”  _

_ He forces himself to push up, so he’s lying on his side, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Has to make sure this is real. He reaches out, gently cups Quentin’s jaw, and his breath hitches as he’s met with the familiar scratchy warmth of a Quentin early morning shadow. “Q,” He breathes, the syllable falling from his lips like snow from the sky; gentle, hesitant. Like the wind could blow it off in the wrong direction and send him careening through the world as he knows it. _

_ Quentin tilts his head, leaning into the touch. “The one and only,” He says, sounding mildly amused. “What’s going on?”  _

_ “You did it,” Eliot answers almost immediately; shock courses through his abdomen, swooping up through his veins and circling his heart. “You didn’t even know me and you did it.”  _

_ Jaw going slack, Quentin swallows. “Oh,” He breathes. “I was— wondering. If you’d ever . . .” He adjusts so he’s sitting up, and the warmth drifts away from Eliot’s palm until Quentin’s looming over him. He reaches out and weaves their fingers together. “I did,” He says, instead of finishing whatever he’d been planning on saying. “Someone from the future comes to tell you not to do what you’re about to do with that look in their eyes, you kind of have no choice.”  _

_ “But I—”  _

_ “You weren’t as easy to convince. But Margo took my side when we told her what happened.” He looks down at their hands, reaching up with his free hand to trace the vein on the top of Eliot’s hand. “She said she didn’t care what timeline it was or what the fuck happens, she wasn’t letting you suffer for any reason if it’s avoidable. She packed both your bags right then and there.”  _

_ “She gave up magic?”  _

_ “Yeah,” He smiles, close lipped and careful, “Said there was no point in magic if it ‘can’t fucking fix us.’” his eyes crinkle as he darts his gaze back up to Eliot’s. “I kind of love her.”  _

_ Eliot nods, eyes falling to look at their hands. Something glints in the sun, and he twists their hands around to look at the matching silver band on each of their hands. “What are these?”  _

_ “Promises,” Quentin murmurs after a moment, voice hoarse. “There have been bad days. And these were our way of promising to never leave the other alone if it’s too bad.” He shrugs a shoulder, brings his index finger around to trace the one on Eliot’s finger. “We’re not engaged, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  _

_ A pang shoots up his spine. There’s always time for that, now. They can live that life whenever they want. That’s not what he’s worried about. Besides— he’s kind of relieved that he’ll be there when it does happen.  _

_ “I’m more worried about whether or not I’ll get to remember this.”  _

_ Quentin nods, shuffling closer to him, and reaching out to squeeze his hip. “If not, we’ll make new memories. I’m not too worried.”  _

_ “That’s not like you.”  _

_ He smiles. “Well,” He says, “I’ve spent a lot of time with someone who doesn’t like to worry.” He shrugs. “It’s not like i didn’t know this day was coming. You’re the only reason this happened.”  _

_ Eliot scoffs. “That’s not true. This happened because you were— you were brave. Jesus, Q.”  _

_ “You always say that,” Quentin says with an eye roll. “But you literally put everything on convincing me and you that magic wasn’t worth pursuing.” He shakes his head, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “As much as I love this conversation, I’m still hungover from your birthday party. Can we get some more sleep, and then, at a more reasonable hour I can call Margo and we can go over everything with you?”  _

_ “Will you actually still be here when I open my eyes?”  _

_ Quentin’s smile falls a fraction, before he nods and leans back in, morning breath still smiling vaguely of tequila and rum fanning over Eliot’s cheeks, and Eliot doesn’t even care as he presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, lips brushing against Eliot’s on every other syllable. “Go to sleep, El.”  _

_ Eliot nods, but moves in closer, looping his arm over his waist as a wobbling little smile takes over. “Alright,” He says, softer than the breeze coming in through the window. “But I’m not letting go of you.”  _

_ Quentin laughs, shuffling so he can roll over and press his back to Eliot’s chest. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”  _

_ They lie there for a moment. Eliot revels in the feeling of Quentin’s chest rising and falling, pressing into Eliot’s with every inhale, and easing away with every exhale. Feels his heart pounding through him, like a vibration at his very core. He smiles into the back of Quentin’s neck, and presses a soft kiss to the skin there. “I love you,” He says.  _

_ He says it again as something else eases off his shoulders.  _

_ And again. _

_ And again. _

_ Until Quentin rolls back over and buries his fingers in his hair and kisses him to shut him up. “I love you, too,” He says.  _

_ Eliot lets his eyes flutter closed, and the feeling eases away completely as Quentin’s fingers dig into his scalp, a gentle massage that’s clearly been perfected over the years as a means to ease him. He pulls him in closer, tangling their legs together.  _

_ As sleep finally overtakes him, images from a life that never happened seep into his dreams, and then— _

_ They slip away. Replaced by the hickory warmth of Quentin. _

_ Of a new life. _

_ A happy life. Where nobody they love dies. And where they don’t have to fear losing one another.  _

_ The memories etch themselves into his mind like dreams, and for the first time in maybe his entire life— he falls asleep with a smile, and isn't afraid of what morning will bring.  _

 


End file.
